


Wheel of Westeros: Book Two Rise of Daenerys Part Six

by Thrafrau (annmcbee)



Series: Wheel of Westeros [32]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Barrow Kings, Dragon Riders, F/M, Fiery Hand, Horn Of Joramun, Loch Ness Monster, Torrhen's Square, Volantis (A Song of Ice and Fire)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-15 19:40:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29441316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annmcbee/pseuds/Thrafrau
Summary: Tyrion confesses to Dany, and finds himself banished...but not for long, and Dany's forgiveness takes incredible form. Arya confesses to Jon as well, as they face an enemy who was once family. Jon retrieves the Horn of Joramun from Val, but it's too late to stop the dark and long-dead powers of the earth from changing their world forever.
Relationships: Jon Snow & Arya Stark, Jon Snow/Val, Long Haul Jon/Daenerys, Lynesse Hightower/Tyrion Lannister, Tyrion Lannister & Daenerys Targaryen
Series: Wheel of Westeros [32]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1458574
Comments: 10
Kudos: 9





	Wheel of Westeros: Book Two Rise of Daenerys Part Six

**_The Wheel of Westeros_ **

**Book Two: Rise of Daenerys Part Six**

_Disclaimer:_

_This fan fiction is meant neither to be a continuation of George R. R. Martin’s_ A Song of Ice and Fire _series, nor a revision of seasons 6-8 of the HBO series,_ Game of Thrones _. It is meant to stand alone, independent of those works, and can be read alone by those who have not seen the TV series or read the books. Having said that, this work will borrow from not only_ Game of Thrones _and_ A Song of Ice and Fire, _but from multiple other works of film, television, music and literature. Please see footnotes for references, and feel free to point out any I’ve forgotten._

Chapter 1: Tyrion

At long last, Daenerys had summoned him, and Tyrion was both ecstatic to lay eyes on her again, and terrified about the truth that was necessary to tell. He followed Missandei, whose sweet face he had also missed during his travels, down the hall to the queen’s private chambers. The little scribe was growing taller, it seemed. Soon she would be handsome young woman. Lady Shyrli had dressed her in a blowsy, summery little dress in golds, blues and roses with an open belly and billowing sleeves. It ruffled and fluttered when she walked. Missandei warned Tyrion before he entered to go gently with the queen. Of late, Dany could only bear her audiences one at a time. Since her husband had tried to strangle her, only to be killed himself, she was understandably indisposed.

Tyrion, Captain Aggo and Lady Lynesse had been skipping about the Step Stones and the Free Cities together for weeks: Braavos, Tyrosh, Grey Gallows, Bloodstone, Lys, Myr, the Summer Isles – before returning to Volantis just ahead of Dany and her court. In negotiations with the various bankers and guild captains, Aggo’s winning smile and imposing muscles, as well as Lynesse’s beauty and boldness were welcome, for though Tyrion had a knack for getting money to move where his queen wanted it, his size and looks could be a serious impediment. Aggo was also gifted for looking on the bright side of things. The Dothraki captain was the only one who hadn’t complained about the supper of fried cockroaches they were served while on Bloodstone. On Grey Gallows, he had happily used his own jacket to shelter Lynesse from a deluge of rain that had assaulted them, not concerned at all that he ended up soaked. _Rain cleans the roach shit away_ , he had said. Tyrion had noticed with some dismay how Lynesse enjoyed the view of Aggo’s naked chest.

As for Lynesse, Tyrion had come to appreciate the way she could match his barbs, not to mention the way she could wear those gaily-colored gowns and jumpers – her curves were sultry and her skin silky even at her advancing age. When they were harassed outside the Iron Bank of Braavos by a couple of reptile-faced constables, she had flirted their way right out of the predicament, and when the same constables had finally left red-faced and puffed up with flattery, Lynesse had noted that, _should those two bear a child together, its eyes would be in the right place._ She had a delicate beauty like Dany’s – creamy fair skin and pale golden hair down to her waist – but she was anything but delicate in her manner. She loved to dance, drink and make japes, yet she took no nonsense from powerful men. On the rare occasion Tyrion failed to move them, she would have them on their knees. When she was kind to Tyrion, allowing him to kiss her little white hand or coquettishly petting his thickening beard, he got a magical feeling inside. There was something about being liked by a person who had general disdain for most people.

Together they had started the process of helping freedmen in joining guilds across the Free Cites. At first, the guild captains resisted allowing the former slaves membership, having bought into the yarn the masters had woven about slaves being lazy, irresponsible and stupid, and therefore not likely to pay their dues. Soon however, they were happy to bring in new members, who would more than happily pay for their protection. They had set about helping freedmen in organizing new guilds also – ones for the type of labor that was not typically represented: whores, scullions, tutors, and so forth. It had become apparent that, in order for these former slaves to carve out a place for themselves in Dany’s new world, they needed capital. For that purpose, Tyrion had determined diversity was the key. They were welcome to borrow from Dany’s own bank, Fort Tysha, but they would be even better off if they worked with other financial institutions as well. As expected, they had failed to convince the Iron Bank to loan to slaves, but they had multiple successes with other lenders, especially Salladhor Saan.

Tyrion, Lynesse and Aggo met with Salla on his way back from Pentos where he met with Dany and Stannis Baratheon and sampled some “ash” – the new intoxicant that was all the rage with the Lorathi, Norvosi and other Rhoynar. Dany had honored Stannis’s debt to Salla by supplying him with a large shipment of the drug previously bought at a discount from the “kraken’s daughter,” now known to be the once princess of Pyke, Asha Greyjoy. The profits from that would certainly cover the loan with interest, and Salla had been impressed by Dany – in a manner both negative and positive.

“She did not seem mad in the slightest,” Salla said. “But it is said that all Targaryens dance at the edge of madness. Tell me honestly…what do you think might flip your queen’s coin?”

They were sipping pear brandy and dining on honeyfingers flavored with mango and huge sweet red grapes, as newly freed dancers spun and shimmied around them, dressed only in thin, strategically placed sashes of satin in gay colors. The four of them had spent the day together on one of Salla’s private beaches, a gorgeous little oasis of black sands littered with pink starfish and tiny sea urchins. Tyrion and Lynesse spent the whole time sipping pineapple juice with rum and sunbathing as they watched Salla teaching Aggo how to ride the waves on a long board made of balsawood. Now that Stannis’s debt was paid, Tyrion asked Salla whether he might be interested in loaning capital to people such as these dancers, who might form their own company if they had the means, and become successful in addition to being free. Salla seemed game, especially when he considered the loan payments, but he had been burned by monarchs before.

“Our khaleesi has suffered many a shove and hasn’t fallen yet,” Aggo offered. He wore a cuirass of gleaming bronze scales, and the sun had painted golden streaks in his dark hair. His shoulders caught the eye of more than one dancer as they floated around him.

“The slavers will fight until the very end,” Salla said, licking honey from his fingers. He wore a purple silken tunic with dragons embroidered in gold thread, breeches of crimson-dyed boiled leather, and high snakeskin boots with silver at the toes. _Always dressed for a gala this pirate._ “How far will the little silver queen take her fight?”

“Until the end of the end,” Aggo said. “She is the stallion who mounts the world.”

“The mare you mean,” Salla said. “For she is a woman…lest we forget.”

“And what of it?” Lynesse said. “The record shows more male Targaryens falling to madness than female. And a woman can definitely do the mounting…I can vouch for that.” She had been teasing Salla all evening – clearly enjoying his gaze. She looked particularly beautiful in a low-cut gown of crimson crushed velvet and a black brocade wrap draped over her shoulders. She had donned one of Lady Shyrli’s headdresses for the occasion, a wimple crusted with quartz crystals that seemed ablaze when they caught the light of the torches. She looked like a courtesan priestess from another world – a beauty from an ancient age…or perhaps some time in the future.

“Daenerys will be victorious…let that not be in doubt,” Tyrion said. “She will remember those who believed in her. Dany is nothing if not generous when it comes to returning loyalties.”

“And yet you tremble when you say her name,” Salla observed.

“Do I?”

“You do…” Salla leaned forward and looked deeply into Tyrion’s eyes. “You’re afraid of her are you not?”[1]

“So what if I am?” Tyrion broke his gaze, looking instead at a female dancer who flitted past, her breasts swinging, a blood-red garnet glittering within her navel.

“What is in it for you, I ask? For you seem a man who follows the beat of his own drummer,” said Salla.

“I was that man, it’s true.” Tyrion returned his gaze to Salla, and the dragons that shimmered on his tunic. “But I follow that woman’s drumbeat now. The Gods have put her on a path, and I mean to follow her on that path. I must see where the road leads for that incredible being.”[2]

It was in that moment that Tyrion realized he loved Dany – not necessarily the way one loves a wife, but the way one is supposed to love a sister – and also the way one loves a wife. Before that moment, Tyrion had only acknowledged his devotion to the queen in as far as it meant exponential benefit to himself: revenge against his vile sister, obscene wealth, power beyond what he could ever have expected before he put an arrow in his father’s bowels, and of course, unlimited access to food, wine and whores for the rest of his debauched life. However, as he sealed the contract signed by Salla, it occurred to him at last that he truly wanted to see Daenerys Targaryen on the Iron Throne – wanted to see what Westeros, the nation that had chewed him up and spit him out, would become under her dainty bejeweled boot. Naturally, if he wore the pin of Hand of the Queen and had some say in that transformation, he wouldn’t be much put out. By the same token, Tyrion realized that young Griff might be a hindrance to the purity of Dany’s master plan – a dilution of the perfect monarchy, even if his blood was indeed the dragon’s. She would never fight her nephew without provocation, it was true, but from what Tyrion knew of the boy’s temperament, provocation was likely enough. If he knew of Victarion’s death, perhaps he would refuse to wed Dany out of fear for his own life, but Tyrion didn’t like the odds of that.

However, before Tyrion had gotten a chance at a private audience with Dany, in which he would discuss with her the possibility of taking the kingdoms sans husband, Victarion resolved the first chapter of the matter by attempting to kill the queen. Stalwart Shield and another Unsullied lieutenant had responded to a disturbing sound from behind her bedchamber door to find her splayed upon the floor gasping for breath, and Victarion dead in a pool of blood. The door had been locked – Shield had to batter it in – and there had been no one in or out other than Victarion. A shadow, Dany had told them, had skewered the Greyjoy captain before he was able to extinguish her life. As Moqorro, the only shadowbinder present in the palace, was to remain in the queen’s court, some of Victarion’s crew fast departed back to Pyke. Still others, including Nute the Barber, had determined to stay, or wait for Asha Greyjoy to take them on when she arrived. In the meantime, while Dany recovered, audiences were on hold. Tyrion for his part was unhappily reminded of Shae, the lover he had strangled upon finding her in his father’s bed, and knew that if he wanted to earn the full trust of the queen – enough that she would listen when he told her not to rush into another marriage – he could not leave that a secret between them.

Missandei announced, _Lord Tyrion your grace_ , and opened the door to the sound of a very soft _come_ to let him in. Dany sat at her table with a carafe of wine and two pewter goblets, though it was a steaming cup of tea she held in her hands to sip. On her head she wore the _hrakkar_ pelt that Khal Drogo had given her, the white lion’s mane enveloping her shoulders, as if in a comforting embrace. Her gown was one that Shyrli had made with the North in mind, though it was clear she had no idea of the type of cold they would actually experience. It was a deep blue samite with a bodice open between her breasts except for bead strings of purple glass that cris-crossed the front. Long wisps of silk dangled from thickly beaded brocade sleeves in purple and scarlet, and the fabric flowed over Dany’s lap and down her legs like a dark little waterfall. The high neck was why Dany had chosen it, to conceal the marks left by Victarion’s violence. Yet Tyrion could still see splotches of blackish purple under her chin, and the white of her right eye was still full of blood in one corner. The dark indigo paint over her eyelids and gold mica dusted over her lips did not hide the purple speckles made by burst blood vessels beneath her eyes. The sight choked away Tyrion’s smile, and a small gasp escaped his lips.

“Is it that bad?” Dany asked him, motioning for him to sit. She had placed a small tuffet next to the chair to aid him in climbing onto it. Her voice was smaller than usual.

“I’m only sorry it happened, your grace,” Tyrion answered as he sat. For a moment, he couldn’t think of what to say, and they sat in silence – she sipping her tea, he gulping his wine.

“I really believed he wouldn’t hurt me,” she said at last. “I thought I had it under control. Do you think I was a fool?”

“There never was a person further from a fool.”

“Marriage has been my most deadly battle, do you know that? Every one of my husbands…they all hurt me…or tried to.”

“I understood Khal Drogo treated you well.”

“Not at first. At first he hurt me too.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“Perhaps he didn’t mean to…but that doesn’t make it all right, does it?”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“How can I marry again? What man could I possibly trust? Perhaps no man fit for marrying is capable of loving me. Perhaps I am unloveable.”

“Unloveable. You.” Tyrion took a long slow sip of wine. It was a crisp arbor gold. “Perhaps you are capable of foolishness after all.”

“Well I can certainly count on your honesty, can’t I?”

_Here it is…goodbye my sweet queen. **[3]**_ “Actually…that was what I had hoped to speak to you about.”

“My foolishness or your honesty?”

“Did I tell you, your grace, that I was married before?”

“Yes of course…to Lady Stark.”

“No…before that…”

Tyrion then told her about Tysha…the wife he had married at a young age – a common woman arranged for him by his brother, who his father had ordered gang raped by guards before sending her away.

“Even with a crossbow aimed at him in the privy, he wouldn’t say where she went. ‘Where whores go,’ was all he told me,” Tyrion said. _Where do whores go, anyway?_

Tears filled Dany’s eyes, and spilled out when she closed them and shook her head slowly. “Oh Tyrion…Tyrion. I don’t know what to say.”

“I am who I am because of what happened to Tysha – a monster.”

Dany blinked. “Victarion called me a monster before he strangled me. Are we truly monsters, my lord?”

“ _You_ are not, that I believe. I, however…”

He sighed deeply, and then told her what happened to Shae – how he had used his father’s chain to choke the life from her, even as she gazed at him with love.[4] Red coloring spiked Dany’s cheeks then drained away. Her look of empathy faded to a numb stare. She pulled her knees to her chest, and drew the hanging legs of the hrakkar closed over them.

“Here’s what you’re going to do, my lord,” she said finally. “You’re going to put down your wine. You are going to walk out the door of this room, and again out the double doors to the hall – that latch sticks a bit. I’ve been meaning to have Jhiqui take a look at it. Then you’re going to walk out the front entrance into the courtyard, past the wall, and you will _never, ever, show your face to me again as long as you live_!”

“Your grace…”

“Say one more word and I’ll scream!”[5]

Tyrion opened his mouth just slightly, and the beginnings of a scream slipped from Dany’s mouth before she covered it with both of her hands, squeezing her eyes shut again. Dejected, Tyrion did as he was told.

Chapter 2: Jon

The Brotherhood’s camp lay in the crook of a the river’s bend just south of Barrows Lake. Scouting wasn’t easy in this part of the North, for the trees were few and far between and the scrub was all bare of leaves. All Jon and Arya could do was crouch behind one of the great mounds under which the Barrow Kings were laid to rest. With a telescoping glass, they took turns peering into the distance at their fires, which they burned brightly as if daring the forces of Dustin and Ryswell to seek them out. Arya took the glass from Jon’s hand and squeezed one eye shut, tilting her head. After a moment, her eye slowly opened and her head jerked upright. As she pulled the glass away from her face, a look of despair came over her that pricked at Jon’s heart.

“What is it, Arya?”

“She’s with them.”

Her eyes became wet – fixed some ways into the distance as she slowly handed the glass to Jon. “The east side…next to the night fire,” whispered Arya. “The bigger one.”

Jon held up the glass, and once his eye adjusted to the orange glow of the Brotherhood’s fire, built in honor of R’hllor, he saw her. In the dark, with only a glimmer of light, the figure could be discerned as Catelyn Stark. It was her height, and stood with a similar posture, grasping her wrinkled grey skirts with one hand and the neck of her tattered cloak with the other. However, the face that peeked out from beneath the woolen hood was far from the Catelyn that Jon remembered. Her face was a sallow greyish hue, and the skin upon her cheekbones hung in macabre shreds. Her eyes seemed filled with blood, and they gazed into the fire with a sinister malice that made Jon’s bones feel cold. A deep gash in her neck had been sewn loosely shut with what looked like gut. She stood so very still. This was what had become of Arya and Sansa’s mother. Jon lowered the glass and looked at Arya, not knowing what to say that could make this better or any less horrifying. The moment he caught her eye she crouched and slunk away. Jon glanced back toward the camp one last time before following her.

They crept in silence to the horses and then rode at speed back to where Jon’s men were bivouacked on the edge of the Barrowlands. They reported what they had found: the Brotherhood were awaiting the march toward Torrhen’s Square, at which time they would ambush Barbery Dustin and Rodrik Ryswell and their guard. Jon guessed they planned to hold them and draw out Rodrik’s sons Roose, Rickard and Roger as well. While their soldiers laid siege to Torrhen’s Square to flush out Val and her band, the Brotherhood of Stoneheart would hang them all one by one for declaring for House Bolton. Val’s people were of course well aware of the Dustin and Ryswell assault coming, and they would be able to hold them off for a while, perhaps until the news of their Lords’ abduction put them into full retreat. Jon did not wish to risk Val’s life even on such a high hope. Away from the others, in the quiet of night, with one hand on the trunk of a tree or the top of a jutting boulder where these might be found, Jon prayed. He called upon the lizard lions, the Old Gods of the Neck, to fall into Barrows Lake – fill it with their thrashing tails and iron jaws, and lay into any Dustin or Ryswell soldier, and every Brotherhood member as well, who made to breach that ancient holdfast. First, he hoped to meet Lady Dustin and Lord Ryswell and negotiate. If they agreed to let Jon take the castle for Sansa, he would see that the Brotherhood rode back south.

When the men had begun to hunker down in the tents for the night, Jon observed that Arya didn’t not crawl into her bedroll next to Morna and the young spearwives who had their own curtained-off corner of Jon’s tent. Instead, she very quietly asked Jon for a word before ducking out into the cold. Jon gave his shield and sword to Satin and followed her. The moon was merely a sliver in the cloudy night sky, and Arya’s silhouette quickly began to blur into the darkness, but Jon followed her scent over to the edge of a snow-covered mound littered with ancient rocks. He carried a torch, but noticed his sister did not.

“How can you see where you’re going?” Jon asked when Arya’s face finally took shape in the light of his torch. It was an eerie sight – Arya’s face lit up in the dark, especially after what she had told him about her days in Braavos. She had grown very beautiful, but there was a danger lurking in those steel-colored eyes – a rage.

Arya smiled, but her eyes still seemed far away. “Brother…I want you to understand something, because I know your heart, and I know you’re thinking…”

“My heart isn’t what it was.”

“No…it’s even more tender.”

“Oh leave it out.”

“Jon, I have to… kill the Hangwoman. I’m going to… I have to do it, but if it comes to you having to do it…If I can’t…” Her voice began to waver.

“Arya…”

“If you have the opportunity take it.”

“We can take her a prisoner. Give her to Sansa.”

“Sansa? Jon…” Arya looked up into the inky sky. A thin snow had begun to fall, and she blinked when it landed in her eyes. Then she fixed her eyes on him – grey and stormy, like his own. “I am Mercy – the mad murdering maid of King’s Landing.”

Her words struck Jon with a sudden hilarity. His mind flashed suddenly to Arya as a little girl at Winterfell, flexing her skinny arm so he could feel her muscle. A laugh rose out of his belly, but Arya was neither smiling nor laughing. “Arya…” Jon said. “You did what you had to do to survive. We all have…”

“No. I did what I wanted. I did it out of hate – and not just to our enemies. I killed people who were a means to an end…”

“But…”

“Innocent ones who were in the wrong place at the wrong time…”

“Arya…you don’t have to…”

“I’m a murderer. A scoundrel and a brute. That’s the truth – and one day I’ll have to pay the Many-Faced God his due. I didn’t want to lie to you, or keep you in the dark before the time comes…”

Suddenly the gap of time between when he gave Arya her first sword and the day she jumped into his arms after returning to Winterfell stretched out in Jon’s mind like a chasm opening in the earth – and inside a deep and terrible darkness colder than icebergs. What suffering had she endured that he hadn’t been there to prevent? Arya was looking down at her feet, at the snowflakes collecting on her Eastern-made boots. Jon took a great step toward her and pulled her into his arms.

“I should have taken better care of you,” he said.[6]

Arya said nothing, and as her head fell upon his shoulder, a wolf’s howl broke the dark.

Chapter 3: Daenerys

Dany hadn’t spent much time at the High Tower brothel in Pentos. Of course, she went at the request of Lady Lynesse when it first opened, to wish her well in the new venture and publicize her approval. Lynesse was true to her word and treated her bed workers gently – even spoiled them with rich food, fine clothes and jewels. She was careful in choosing her clientele so that her employees need not fear any harm. In general, the atmosphere was convivial and gay – there was lively, cheerful music always playing, good wine always flowing and a sprinkle of ash in every draught. She trusted Lynesse, and yet there was a sadness in a brothel that Dany couldn’t place. It had something to do with ash – the way it made people tell secrets to themselves, dissolving their expressions as the ash itself dissolved in warm milk.

She felt the same sadness as she sat in the palanquin outside the dimly lit and steamy establishment at which she knew Venny of the Fiery Hand would find Lord Tyrion. Volantene brothels were much more luxurious in general than those in Pentos – especially those patronized by the rich and powerful. Tyrion was still that, though Dany had banished him from her sight. He was still her Master of Coin and still a part of her court – and she missed him. When he had confessed to murdering his lover, he had added to the growing knowledge in Dany’s mind that, as a woman, her life belonged to men unless she remained Queen.

Some part of her had found relief in Griff’s appearance, not only because it meant she was no longer the only Targaryen in the world, but because perhaps the burden of ruling might be taken off her shoulders. Ruling Mereen and the Free Cities had been more toil than joy, and ruling her father’s realm would be little different. Since meeting him, seeing how handsome, sensitive and well-spoken he was, not to mention brave and outspoken, she had allowed herself to fantasize about living as his lady wife while he ruled. She knew how to influence a man’s decisions after all. Even Drogo had promised finally to cross the poison water and crush her enemies for her. Certainly, she could convince that sweet boy with her brother’s silver hair and purple eyes that some lords needed to share more wealth with their smallfolk, or that some daughters should have birthright over sons. She couldn’t sway him with her body – Arianne Martell had taken that role – but he melted surely enough after a ride on Drogon.

However, after what Victarion did…Then Tyrion’s confession had confirmed what perhaps she ought to have known all along. To a man of rank, a woman was disposable. Victarion hadn’t liked Dany’s mission, so he had labeled her mad and tried to exterminate her like some disease-spreading vermin. Hizdahr had the same thought. Perhaps even her sun and stars, should the Seven Kingdoms not have pleased him, would have cast her aside and replaced her with some young Westerosi maid. Perhaps, once Griff was able to ride a dragon alone safely, Dany would meet with an accident. If Dany wanted to live to see her people free and her realm safe, she had to rule entirely and completely. She had to be queen – not king’s wife, not consort, but an absolute ruler. What did that mean for her and Griff? She couldn’t bear to hurt him – her only family. What was the answer? She had hated Tyrion for reminding her of the question.

It wasn’t long before Venny emerged with Tyrion waddling out beside him. He came of his own accord, though Venny did loom over in the imposing way he had. The captain of the Fiery Hand was a huge man with shiny yellow-golden skin tattooed at his jaws and neck with the black fires of his Lord. His orange robes had been replaced with black in honor of his new position on the royal Targaryen guard, but he still wore the gleaming red armor and wielded the deadly spear molded to look like flames. His narrow eyes were as dark as night over a commanding nose like an arrowhead on his face, and his voice was the deepest Dany had ever heard. Still, he could be gentle when called upon, and he displayed this trait as he helped a nervous-looking Tyrion up into the palanquin. Once he glanced Dany seated before him, wearing her dragonglass-encrusted black riding gown with the steel dragon breastplate over it, he fell in a heap to the floor of the palanquin and kissed the toes of her dark boots.

“My Queen…thank the gods,” Tyrion said, his voice breaking. He kept his eyes lowered to the ground. Dany’s eyes stung. She nodded to Venny, who ordered the bearers to get the palanquin moving. Drogon wouldn’t sit waiting for long.

“Look at me, Tyrion,” she said.

Tyrion slowly raised his head, and Dany grasped his knobby chin in her gloved hand. “You will not talk,” she said. “Listen.” Tyrion nodded.

“That whore,” said Dany. “That whore had no choice but to do what she did. She made the choice to survive, but you took that choice from her. Your father – he would have found a way to murder you eventually, but that whore posed you no danger. You could have lived without killing her, but you took her life anyway. She was a lover in a bed, not a soldier on the battlefield, and her body was no weapon, but a place for men and babies to be inside of. You had no right. Now what do you have to say for yourself.”

Tyrion shook his head. “Only that I wish I could take it back. And I put myself at your mercy, your grace. I put _my_ survival in _your_ hands.”

“That’s right.”

She poured Tyrion a cup of wine from the carafe in her basket and ordered him to sit and drink. They were silent for a moment before Tyrion asked, “Where do whores go, my queen?”

Dany shrugged. “To the High Tower?”

She peered out the curtain to shed a smile upon the onlookers who crowded in the streets to see her pass. Some tossed the petals of frangipani and bright clusters of azaleas into the air as the retinue passed, and some handed bouquets to her bloodriders as they clopped by. When they came to a lowly area – which Dany could tell by the intensity of the piss smell – she reached for an earthen jar that sat on the floor at her feet.

“Watch,” she said to Tyrion, then took the jar and handed it to Venny, who handed it to Rakharo riding proudly beside them Beaming, Rakharo pulled from it fistful after fistful of gold coins, tossing them in a great arc over the crowd. By the time they made their way to the square where Drogon waited, the cheers from the people were louder than thunder. In the square, Dany bid the palanquin carriers let her down and help themselves to water and the rest of the evening at their leisure. Dany took a moment to savor the terror that came over Tyrion’s face when his eyes landed upon the black scales of Drogon.

“You think I would burn you, my lord?”

Tyrion looked at her with grim confusion for a moment, then a twinkle arose in his one black eye, as he understood the smile Dany was now wearing. She held her hand out to him.

“Come.”

As they flew over the city, Dany clutching his little body in front of her like a big crooked doll, Tyrion laughed uproariously and hooted like a lemur. They circled all of Volantis and the palace half a dozen times before Dany placed her lips to Tyrion’s ear and spoke loud enough to carry over the wind that whipped at their heads.

“No more whoring Tyrion…understand?”

Tyrion turned to look at her, his face wet with tears of joy, his smile fading. Slowly, he nodded and said, “I swear.”

“You are and will be loved, Tyrion Lannister, if you allow it.”

She kissed his temple, and brought Drogon down and home.

Chapter 4: Jon

_Wildling whore…_

The words pierced the air above Barrows Lake, drawing Jon back to a time when he knew not who he was, when those words meant Ygritte, his first lover. He couldn’t recall the circumstances in which they had been said. He fingers tensed now on the bow, and he envisioned the arrow point entering Roger Ryswell’s eye socket. Saliva filled his mouth. _Had it been my arrow that had felled Ygritte?_

“Lower your bow, bastard. If you want your Wildling whore to live, you’ll lower your bow, and direct me to this weapon with haste.”

Lord Ryswell had Val’s arm in a grip behind her, and his sword at her throat. They stood at the shore of the lake, while Jon stood not far from the open portcullis of Torrhen’s Square. Ryswell’s eyes were wild with malice and his mouth was fixed open in a cruel leer. Jon considered loosing the arrow, taking the chance that it would strike home before the blade opened his wife’s throat. He was throttled between the rage he felt for this man and the unnameable sorrow he would feel if his own actions brought Val’s death upon her. _Was it my arrow? Was it?_

Had the Ryswells only done right, much could gone differently. Arya had used one of her faces to breach the Ryswell and Dustin camp, peeling away the face of her unfortunate servant girl and revealing her own before Barbrey Dustin and Lord Rodrik in their tent. Jon thought surely that upon seeing Arya’s power they would take her offer to draw off Lady Stoneheart’s men and coax Val from the castle in exchange for calling off their siege. She had brought with her Tom O’Sevens of the Brotherhood as proof of the danger that followed them. It was Tom who told them that Val possessed a powerful weapon – a horn that could wake giants from the earth – and it was best they not provoke her to use it. _I ought to have sling shot a bell ringer into his ear socket right then_ , Arya had said when she told the story, flicking the top of Tom’s red ear. Jon didn’t know what that meant, but he wouldn’t have predicted that the Ryswells would defy her anyway. Lady Barbrey had agreed to withdraw her own forces, but the Ryswell brothers set to arguing about the best way to obtain that weapon for themselves.

However, they would not find the Horn of Joramun in Val’s possession. Jon had sent his loyal raven King into Torrhen’s Square to alert Val and her men to his arrival. That night, when the moon had risen, Jon was allowed to enter the north gate. Torrhen’s Square was a plain, square and unassuming little castle, but it let in more light than the Dreadfort, and it had the Wolfswood to its north and the lake to its south, meaning fish and game were relatively easy to come by. Val occupied the lord’s chamber of the great square keep in the center. Jon had entered the room and saw Val bathed in the light of the hearth. She sat upon a pallet piled with furs before the fire, in a nightdress made of lambskin, and her hair hung loose over her shoulders. Jon was stunned to see that her honey-golden crown was heavily streaked with grey and white.

“My love…your hair,” he had said to her.

She turned, and Jon was surprised as well to see a look of anguished remorse in her bright eyes. She sighed and said, “Oh Jon Snow…I’ve made a mistake.”

For a moment, it looked as if she might cry. Jon went over and knelt next to her on the furs, threading his fingers through her changed locks. “It’s all right now. I forgive you.” He kissed her softly on the jaw and cupped her chin in his hand. “Tell me…where is the horn?”

Val pulled her face away and nodded up toward the mantle over the hearth. There it was – the horn the Brothers of the Night’s Watch had found at the Fist of the First Men in halves – fused together and hanging upon a couple of crude brass hooks.

“How?” Jon asked.

“Oh Jon Snow,” Val whimpered. “It’s more powerful than I knew…”

“Did you blow upon it? Did you sound it?”

Val nodded. “Only twice. When I went for a third… my hands shook and it fell to the floor. I’ve never been afraid like this, Jon Snow.” She seemed between crying and laughter.

Jon took her face in his hands and kissed her mouth. “We’ll destroy it,” he said. “We’ll burn it. The Wall still stands. It’s not too late. We can fix it. We shall get our daughter and start again in a new, safe place…”

Val bowed her neck, shaking her head and placing a hand firmly over Jon’s heart. “Oh you stupid man…you thick-hearted, empty-headed man…” Big tears fell from her eyes.

Jon ignored the insult and pulled her to him, wrapping his arms and legs around her. “If you ask it of me, I will take this castle. Then after, when our daughter is safe, I will take Winterfell. Only let me do it without this evil. Let me do it as it should be done.”

Val looked at him, her eyes twinkling with surprise. “You will take back the North as the Gods have entreated? As you were meant to?”

“Yes, my love…” He clutched her at the back of the neck, firmly but not harshly. “Not because I am not angry with you. Not to reward you for abandoning me and endangering our child. Sansa is overburdened and alone. She cannot manage three kingdoms.”

“She was bred to be a king’s wife, not a ruler.”

“She is no spearwife. She’ll never be killer enough to take kingdoms for herself…” Jon didn’t want to talk about Sansa. He kissed Val’s throat and ran a hand over her breast, inhaling her scent deeply. She smelled of pine sap, ancient mud, and rabbit’s fur. She smelled of the lake, too – a deep, dark and haunted smell. Ever since they had drawn close to Barrows Lake, Jon had been aware of it. He had to breathe deep to sense it, but there was something there, down in the darkest depths. Something slept in the sediment and slime at its bottom, something terrifying and cold and made of hate.

“Take me Jon Snow,” Val whispered, pawing at his sword belt. “Do it now with the Gods and dead kings watching. Punish me for defying you as you should.”

So Jon disrobed and lay Val on her back on top of the furs, tearing her nightdress from her body and casting it aside. He held her wrists over her head and wedged himself between her legs, entering her swiftly and forcefully. He pounded her for a short time, but the scent of the dewy skin between her thighs and on her belly filled his mind with sweetness, and he slowed himself and lowered his body to embrace her gently. He kissed her collarbone, and then withdrew so that he could crawl down, first kissing each nipple, then her navel, then softly kissing the raw and tender place he had been acting upon with such force. Then he called upon the anger he had felt when he had come home from war to find his wife and daughter gone, and turned Val over on her knees, letting the wolf take him over.

When he had done with her, Val was slick with sweat and lay on her side with her knees pulled to her chest. By the time they caught their breath, Val had fallen into a fitful sleep. Jon rose and dressed, and plucked the horn from its place on the mantle. He considered tossing it into the hearth then and there, but the fire had fizzled to embers, and he determined to leave before Val awoke. He had stuffed the horn into his breeches and crept out of the castle into the night.

Val surely knew Jon had taken the horn, and now she eyed Jon desperately as the edge of Roger Ryswell’s blade kissed her neck. Jon hadn’t known what she meant by “dead kings watching,” but it had just now become clear. Just after the Ryswells descended upon the castle, the moment Val’s men appeared over the ramparts, the air had grown suddenly unbearably cold, and a crystal snow like tiny knives began to fall from the sky. Jon had thought he saw bluish lights hovering over the barrows in the distance, but he was too occupied with the ensuing battle to investigate, especially when the Brotherhood made their way around the shores of the lake to the scene. They sunk arrows into Lord Rodrik and his son Roose – the black-haired son – as Lady Stoneheart looked on at the edge of a pier that came out onto the lake straight from the castle’s main entrance. Arya dispatched several of the Brotherhood – including the one she called Lemoncloak. The Ryswell men turned then upon Jon’s men as well as Val’s – they saw only Wildlings. The Brotherhood did the same. They saw only what their dark mistress taught them to see – the enemies of Stark. Ghost chased many enemies deep into the Rills, but seemed confused, out of sorts. His head and tail stayed low, and he darted to and fro in frenetic patterns. Wun Wun disappeared strangely in the midst of battle, as if he were afraid – but that was impossible, surely.

Lords Rickard and Roger Ryswell were bent upon seizing the horn, and when Val appeared upon the corner tower, they shoved at slashed at each other: one with hair like rust and another with hair like ripe wheat, brothers in name only. In that moment, _they_ had appeared. The blue-hued light that Jon had glimpsed from the corner of his eye took shape and rushed forth like a river. The floating ethereal shapes seemed like men, but impossibly tall and made up of a cold, cruel glimmering light. One could make out eyes, and what may have been crowns upon their heads, but their faces were the images of loathsome death and putrefaction, their gaping mouths full of razors and screeching sounds of unearthly malice. One by one they dove into the mouths of whatever fool warrior approached them, disappearing momentarily only to reappear brighter and bigger after the bodies of their victims exploded in a loud cannonade, spewing gore for yards. The Freefolk warriors who covered their mouths as they faced them ought to have covered their eyes too, for upon meeting the gaze of those old Barrow Kings, the skin and flesh of their faces melted like candle wax leaving only skulls behind. _Don’t look at them_ , Jon screamed, _shut your eyes and keep them shut!_ [7] He had no idea why he knew that – it had simply come to him, or Ghost had sent the knowledge from the Old Gods. Val, along with another couple of spearwives, including Morna Whitemask, had begun running about with torches, burning some patterns into the snow that Jon could not make out. Where they did so, the ghosts of the kings did not venture, and soon they withdrew back to the barrows.

It was then that Roger had seized Val. He was covered in blood, not only from the men who had been possessed and exploded, but from his own brother, whom he slew on the path to the horn. Jon drew his weapon then and informed Roger that Val did not have the horn and did not know where it was. Now, he lowered his bow and drew back the arrow. He looked into Val’s eyes, and as he did, something at the bottom of the lake stirred. A cold mass moved, opening up a black and muddy pocket that filled the water with darkness. Something awoke there and spoke, but only Jon could hear it. _King of Light,_ it said. _You have disrupted my slumber._

“Don’t tell this cunt anything, my king,” Val said at the same time. “The horn is yours.”

“Tell me or her blood will spill, bastard,” growled Roger. “You’re no king of mine.”

It was in that very moment that Jon realized the horn was still stuck in his breeches. He had lashed it to the front pocket with some thread, but the threads had broken in the melee, and now it was wedged near his crotch. It stuck out somewhat awkwardly, and was now drawing the eyes of the men, and certainly the women, who remained, including some of the Brotherhood and Lady Stoneheart.

If only he could envision the future possibilities for keeping the horn or giving it up. If only he could remember what he had learned about the horn, or what Mance Rayder had told him about its power. However, all he could do now was see the blade at his wife’s throat. He smelled the entrails and macerated eyeballs of dozens, mixed with sweat and shit and terror. He heard the giant beneath the water, grumbling its hunger. He tasted Val’s sex and the tang of blood from the men he killed. He felt the horn against his scrotum, then against the old arrow wound as it began to slide down his leg. In the shadows behind Roger, he saw his sister Arya, still as a gargoyle, dagger drawn.

Jon shifted his weight, and wriggled his leg just slightly, so that the horn drifted down, down to his ankle. Finally, it appeared on top of his boot at the bottom of the leg of his breeches. Roger’s eyes were fixed on it, as were most of the eyes there in the silence of the lakeshore. Jon looked into Val’s eyes and saw a pride in them. He turned his own eyes upon Roger and showed him a sneer.

“ _Choke on it_!” Jon shouted, and kicked the horn high, high into the air over the lake.

In that moment, Arya came down upon Roger, slicing his throat with one fluid motion as Val wriggled away and ran. The horn flew in an arc and down again toward the end of the pier – into the cold, yellow hands of Lady Stoneheart. The Hangwoman held it tight in her grip, leaning over the end of the pier, her shadow grim against the moonlight reflected on the surface of the water. Jon’s jaw dropped, and the one who had once been Catelyn Stark grinned derisively.

“ _Thank you_ , _bastard_ ,” she hissed.

Suddenly, the surface of the lake broke open, and a head that resembled a lizard lion’s emerged, but it was at least six times larger than any lizard lion Jon had ever seen. It opened its jaws, and with a loud crunch, closed them over the head and shoulders of the Lady Stoneheart. [8] The horn fell from her hand into the water, and the creature snatched her from the pier and dove back down into the depths. Its long, humped body appeared black and glistening before it submerged itself again. It was as big as Borroq the Boar and bigger – a leviathan of the North[9] – and Jon had called upon it. _Arya, oh Arya…I’m sorry_. He felt the temperature dropping again, sudden and striking. The moon disappeared under a blanket of cloud, and the wind begun to howl from the north. Panicking, the Brotherhood fled into the night, but they would not make it far.

“Inside the castle…now! Everyone inside…go!” Jon shouted at the top of his lungs.

As if understanding, Toregg repeated the order and so did Arya, commanding Freefolk and Northmen and any else who remained to seek shelter immediately. Val, however, ran away from the castle toward the lake. _The horn…Gods she is still after the horn_! The blood that stained the ground was freezing into crystals before Jon’s eyes, and his breath as he ran after Val was turning to tiny glittering snowflakes. He saw her dive off the edge of the pier before his eyelashes froze together. Running blindly, he called after her.

“Val…stop!”

He ran to the end of the pier, the boards creaking and snapping from the cold seizing the wood. Voices called after him, including Arya’s, and he could feel ice filling his lungs and freezing his hands into claws. His ears and nose burned as if on fire. A sound like a mountain breaking shook his body.

“Val!”

He jumped off the end of the pier onto ice like rock. The lake had frozen solid. Jon continued calling Val’s name until he slipped and fell face forward. He saw Val’s face then, lovely and pale, a vision of beauty unmatched in the world, encased and preserved forever beneath the unrelenting ice.[10]

“ _Val_!”

He landed only a few useless blows against the cruel surface before many sets of hands pulled him away by the arms and waist. He tried to call her name again and look upon her once more, but his lips froze still and silent and icicles filled his eyes.

[1] Benioff, David and D.B. Weiss, _Game of Thrones_ , Season 8, Episode 4: “The Last of the Starks.,” HBO, 2019.

[2] McBride, Danny, _The Righteous Gemstones_ , Season 1, Episode 4: “Wicked Lips,” HBO, 2019.

[3] Fey, Tina, _Mean Girls_ , Paramount, 2004.

[4] Martin, George R. R. _A Storm of Swords_ , Chapter 77, Tyrion XI.

[5] Lynch, David and Mark Frost, _Twin Peaks_ , Season 2, Episode 4: “Laura’s Secret Diary,” 20 October, 1990.

[6] Star, Darren, _Melrose Place_ , Season 2, Episode ?, 1994.

[7] Spielberg, Steven, _Indiana Jones:_ _Raiders of the Lost Ark_ , Paramount, 1981.

[8] Zemeckis, Robert, _Romancing the Stone_ , 20th Century Fox, 1984.

[9] Basing this on the Loch Ness monster: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Loch_Ness_Monster

[10] Van Sant, Gus, _To Die For_ , Columbia, 1995.


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